Bella Vita
by dorkcolfer
Summary: Blaine Anderson is your average struggling chef – he wakes up everyday and goes to work, and he hates on everyone (namely critics) who stand in his way. That is, until he meets Kurt Hummel and the line between "us" and "them" doesn't seem so clear anymore…
1. Blaine

**Notes**: Oh my gosh! So I'm so happy I got to write this piece for Bowtiedarling's lovely art! Once I'd kind of figured out what I wanted to do, the story just flowed. I'm not sure I've done it justice, but here you are! I've made the art the cover for the story, but it is originally a landscape size, so some of it's been cut off. To see all of it, I recommend going to tumblr and checking the tag "dorkcolfer fic". This is a part of my reversebang, which I will be posting in four parts one right after the other.

/

**1. Blaine's POV**

Reporters always ask excellent, popular chefs what they think of food critics. Now personally, I think all of their responses are a load of shit. They're popular, so they've got a good reputation in the community. If one critic gives them a bad review, they're more likely to be written off as a pretentious douchebag. But what the chefs _won't_ tell you is that when they first got into the business, when they _first_ put on that name-badge and tacked their "OPEN" sign to the wall, critics were their worst enemies.

And I'd like to think I'm a nice guy, you know? I'd like to think that I can try to see the best in everyone, that I can be positive. But the truth is, I'm not any different. I _hate_ food critics. I've come pretty close to stabbing just about every one that walks through my door. They try to be inconspicuous, but their true purpose always shines through in the end. They're mean and entitled, and if you mess up one fucking thing, they'd react as if someone had just wedged bamboo planks under their nails.

My dad was in the business, too. He owned your stereotypical pizza place in central Chicago before we relocated to Ohio, and I still remember the horror stories he used to tell. I probably should have listened to him, but then I was told a little white lie by a small-town real-estate agent that was just trying to make a profit.

He said, and I quote, "It's not as hard to start a business nowadays because of the internet. Everyone's a critic, and no one believes nobody."

_Lies_. So many lies, just to trick me into buying a little street-corner excuse for a restaurant. And was it worth it? Maybe. I do like cooking, and running _Bella Vita_ has quickly become a passion of mine. But I also make very little money, thanks to the critics that come into my restaurant every week and tear down my recipes and concoctions and post those insults to their fucking "foodie" blogs. It makes me sick to my stomach.

Honestly, I don't know if that's because I lived three-fourths of my life with the policy "food is food, man," or because I kind of fell in love with one of the people I'd come to hate.

/

_Beep. Beepbeep. Beepbeepbeep. BEEP._

I rolled over with a groan, slammed my fist into the "snooze" button of my alarm clock, and promptly smooshed my face into my pillow. Four o'clock was too early for me, as it always was, but if I wanted to have fresh baked breakfast-foods ready by the time eight rolled around, I'd need to be cooking at five. Small sacrifices, I guess.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed, tapped my toes lightly on the cat when he slinked around my ankles in greeting, and stood up before I could convince myself that lying down for another thirty minutes wouldn't be detrimental to my routine.

It was still dark out, so I didn't have to worry about blinding myself when I twisted open the blinds and looked down at the Columbus, Ohio skyline, and even though it was quite pretty, I felt unimpressed. I yawned a couple of times, rubbed at the sleep in my eyes, and went to fish out a white t-shirt and pair of clean slacks from my dresser.

Showering was honestly the trickiest part of the morning. Nobody ever tells you showers are death traps, because no one wants to have to be around a person with a phobia of bathing that prevents them from having a sense of personal hygiene, but it's true. Showers are death traps. It's why your parents put the little no-stick duckie patterned mat down when you were a kid – they didn't want you to crack your skull open.

Add in a little bit of casual, yet persistent, sleep deprivation, and you've probably got a good idea of what happened when I stepped into the shower, put my foot in a puddle of liquid soap, and then tried to move around.

After that fiasco, I stumbled into my closet of a kitchen (okay. It might not have been _that_ small, but I was spoiled, what with my big restaurant kitchen and all its bells and whistles), to eat something so I wasn't tempted to sample the food I'd be making.

Instead, I realized I was in drastic need of a trip to the grocery store, settled on a poptart (how the _hell _did those end up in my kitchen?), and ran out of the apartment.

_Bella Vita_ was in the center of the entertainment area of Columbus; the place where all the clubs and the restaurants and the movie theaters were smooshed together in a big melting pot of crazy. I moved through the streets quietly, trying to pretend that I didn't notice a _very_ drunk couple fucking in the dip between a couple buildings, and that all the people who walked past me looked exhausted and smelled like smoke. Yeah, what prime real-estate I invested in.

Sometimes I think that's why my brother Cooper insists on calling me "Moron" more often than he calls me "Blaine".

I entered the restaurant through the back and hung up my coat. It was dark, _felt_ dark even after I flipped the light on and everything was washed in a yellow luminescent glow, but I managed to weave my way around the developing disassembled packing box graveyard to the kitchen. I set down my things, scrubbed my hands thoroughly in the sink, and looked around at the quiet kitchen before deciding I needed background noise and pulling out my iPod. I set it on the dock in the corner and got to work, humming along to whatever happened to come on.

/

My employees began to arrive at seven thirty. I had seven in total, and, in a way, I wasn't actually looking forward to the day when I had to hire new people. The idea of having something that wasn't small and unknown felt impersonal.

The first to arrive was Santana, the bartender, who slunk through the back door with a casual "I'm here, Blanderson, not that you give a fuck," and she stormed into the main dining hall to slide over the bar like she did every day and start cleaning the glasses she'd been too lazy to finish the night before.

I stifled a laugh and returned my hands to my mixing bowl, carefully mixing the excess flour into the dough. I could always count on Santana to be the kind of bitch that was actually pleasant to have around, and I couldn't dream of firing her, even if she refused to do any extensive work until noon hit and she opened the bar for business.

Brittany flitted in behind here. "Hi Mr. Blaine!" she said happily. "How's your morning?"

"Good," I said. "Yours?"

"I caught Lord and Lady Tubbington sniffing glue in the oven again," she said solemnly. "I think they feel neglected." She grabbed her hair and held it behind her head as she leaned over the biscotti dough, and spoke very quietly. "I think they might even be _suicidal_."

I forced a weak smile and Brittany eventually left to go tidy up the hostess podium.

The rest of the staff arrived in a flurry of panic — two of my waiters, Tina and Puck, roomed together. Puck had allegedly turned off Tina's alarm clock, causing them both to oversleep and have ten minutes to get out of their apartment. The third waitress, Sugar, came in looking like she'd been hanging around a club all night (which she probably had been), and my assistant chef walked through the door ten minutes before opening.

"Sam!" I bellowed when he came into my line of sight, "You can't just come and go as you please! I'm paying you — I expect you to _show up _every now and again, understood?"

Sam ducked his head, and I felt a little twinge of guilt. He was actually one of my best friends, being co-workers aside, and sometimes it sucked that I had to separate my friendship with him from work. "Yeah," he said quietly, "I know."

"Great!" I said quickly, itching to move on to other topics, "Put on an apron and _get to work_. Last time I checked, there were already a few people hovering outside."

Sam nodded and hurried over to the sink. I sighed and went back to kneading.

In total, our breakfast "rush" consisted of around six parties, with an average of two people each. All of them were faces I recognized, the nice people who had bothered to give a rat's ass about my dinky little Italian bistro and come in for a try. Days like that were frustrating, because I felt like my work was going unrecognized. I had put all of this money into a damn restaurant, and I got _nothing_…

I stopped myself before I worked myself up and knocked over another bottle of olive oil. That was never pretty.

Besides. I didn't know it, but my restaurant was well on its way to becoming one of the most popular in the area.

/

The most complicated order I received that afternoon was from table fifteen; a linguini and clam sauce coupled with a slice of cheesecake and raspberry topping. I took special care with it, as those were two things on the menu I didn't often get the chance to make. I didn't think much more of it than that, and Sugar was in and out of the kitchen with the plates before I could even bat an eye. That was when it happened.

I think it's safe to say that in my life, there haven't been a lot of super spectacular moments that leave me breathless and amazed, but this was one of them.

I saw Sugar come back into the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, and I was confused, because I hadn't yet dinged the bell for the meal I had moved on to. "Is something wrong?" I asked offhandedly, though I suspected that it wasn't really anything of the uppermost importance, because there was a smile spread across her face.

"Table fifteen would like to compliment you in person," she beamed. "The sounds he was making when I left? _Orgasmic_."

I stopped in my tracks. "Really?"

She nodded erratically. "I'm pretty sure he'd sleep with the pasta if he was given the chance."

It took all of ten seconds to process what was being said to me before I called out, "Sam, can you cover for me for five minutes?"

I didn't bother to look over my shoulder, because I knew the answer was yes, and that I didn't have to worry. I followed Sugar out into the dining room.

She pointed to a table that seated a single person, a man, with his face ducked out of view. He was eating at a slow pace, almost like he was savoring each bite completely before swallowing, which was something that I had to appreciate. When I was an appropriate distance away from him, I spoke. "I take it you're enjoying the pasta?"


	2. Kurt

**2. Kurt's POV**

I hated Sue Sylvester. So much. She was the worst excuse for a boss I've ever had, and she had no regard whatsoever for anyone's feelings. And I think she knew I felt that way about her, too, because she always gave me the crappiest restaurants to scout. So much for an enjoyable career, huh?

It wasn't like I started out wanting to be a food critic anyway – actually, I _didn't_. It started way back in high school, when I was doing just about everything to keep my Dad from having a third heart attack. I researched foods that were healthy but tasteful, and I spent my weekends going between restaurants and grocery stores, trying to find anything my dad would like that wasn't fried and dipped in something. I gained a considerable amount of weight before I realized that I was sacrificing my health for his, and backed off. By then, my dad's eating habits were improving steadily, and he had Carole to keep him in line. But my interest in food still remained strong.

When I moved to New York to attend college at NYU, there was a student magazine that talked about the best places to go in the area, and when the head of staff graduated and everyone moved up a peg, a spot opened. I was more than willing to fill it.

It was great. I got to rate different eateries in the area, I made a bunch of new friends. I rarely had to purchase my own food. But it didn't last particularly long. I soon finished college and found myself back in Ohio, moving my stuff into a crappy apartment on the outskirts of Columbus. But, you know. Shit happens and life sucks. Nothing I wasn't used to.

I found Sue Sylvester one day when I was looking into a new cafe in the area and suddenly, there her website was.

It was fairly small and poorly designed, but it had a lot of potential, and they were hiring. I applied. I got the job. And suddenly, it began to grow as a company, and I was going to different holes-in-the-wall all throughout the area. I wrote my thoughts down when I got home and sent them off to Sue, who critiqued, criticized, ranted, beat me down until I promised to make the changes she wanted, and then finally published my review.

And so, yeah. I hated her. I was also pretty terrified of her, which is why my heart jumped into my throat when I saw an email from her in my inbox one morning, with the subject line: _**URGENT – Come into the offices for a meeting at 2 PM.**_

I very literally fell out of my chair in surprise, landing flat on my ass in the middle of my living room. "Crap," I muttered under my breath, "Crap, crap, crap, _crap_."

My eyes fell on the clock, its blinking face informing me that it was nine-thirty. I blindly reached for my phone, plugging in a number I'd known by heart since I was a freshman in college with shaking fingers.

"_Hello, you've reached Rachel Barbra Berry, writer for "How Sue C's It", the popular webzine. I can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message!" _

There was a quick beep shortly after, and I groaned. "Okay, um, _shit_, Rachel, Sue wants to talk to me and I'm really freaking out because she hasn't wanted me to come in to work since I got _hired_, and I'm just…you don't have an email from her, do you? Thanks. Call me back. Please."

I pressed _end_ and sprawled out on the floor, my breathing heavy. "I'm _screwed_."

I spent the next hour running circles around my apartment before I decided that I couldn't stay stuck inside any longer, got dressed, and left to wander the streets.

They were fairly busy, as they always were mid-morning, and I shuffled around, weaving in and out of popular shops, window shopping, _anything_. I couldn't keep myself from looking again and again at my watch, from getting antsier with every passing minute. Finally, I settled on grabbing some lunch and reflecting on my imminent doom.

I found my restaurant of choice tucked into a worn street corner of the entertainment district; a sagged brick building with a gnarled, fenced-off patio and sad-looking window shutters. Gold lettering above the patio covering proclaimed the place _Bella Vita_, and according to a sign stuck to the front door, it had been bringing delicious Italian food to Columbus, Ohio since 2021. I had my doubts, but one thing was for sure – Italian restaurants almost _always_ had cheesecake on their dessert menus.

I sighed, shook my head, and pushed the door inward. I was greeted almost immediately by a perky blonde girl with a strange look in her eyes. "Hi, welcome to Bella Vita! I'm Brittany! I'm guessing a table for one, unless you're meeting someone?"

Something inside my chest twisted, but it was barely noticeable. I smiled. "Yeah, table for one."

Brittany smiled and waved me back into the dining area, which was dimly lit save for the windows that were hanging open to let in natural light. It made the place feel homey, somehow, in a way that most restaurants were lacking. Brittany set me at a table in a corner and left with a flourish, telling me that my server would be right with me. I didn't doubt her, because there were only four other tables being occupied.

My waitress was named Sugar, and her voice was high pitched, overly-enthusiastic, and somewhat whiny, but she was as sweet as her namesake and made sure she had everything I ordered written down perfectly.

"Just to clarify," she said, "You want a lunch plate of linguine and clam sauce, and a piece of the cheesecake, substitute the strawberry topping for raspberry?"

I nodded gratefully, and she scurried off with my order slip in hand. I settled in my chair, and I had almost – _almost_ – forgotten about my plans for the afternoon when my phone rang and Rachel's picture lit up my lock screen. "Hello?" I answered hesitantly.

"_Kurt! Hi. I got an email, too, and so did Jacob and Becky, so whatever it is can't be that bad…"_ She trilled, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh, that's great. I was so afraid she was gonna fire me," I groaned, leaning my head against the heel of my hand. "I actually just ordered some cheesecake. I was about to _eat my feelings. _Oh god, I really should stop doing that."

"_Well…"_

"Rachel Berry, professional people don't fire their employees in flocks!" I hissed.

I could almost hear her hold up her hands in defense. _"Since when have you considered _Sue_ of all people to be professional? I'm just saying, be prepared for anything…"_

That was when Sugar showed up with my food, and I cut Rachel's ramble off by saying, "Stop bringing logic into the conclusions I make! Okay, I've got to go. See you at two," when the aroma hit my nose. It all smelled fantastic. I hung up and looked up at Sugar apologetically. "Sorry about that."

She shook her head and set my plates down in front of me. "No, no big deal! This is my job, remember? I'm supposed to let you have your phone conversations. You're more polite than some people I've waited on before."

I grinned at her compliment — I always tried to be polite as possible at restaurants, _because_ of those very people Sugar had "waited on before" — and swirled a collection of noodles around my fork, promptly putting it in my mouth.

It was absolutely delicious. Everything about it was perfect — the texture, the flavors and the accents…I think my eyes rolled into the back of my head before I let out a moan that was not even _remotely_ appropriate for the setting. "Oh my god, this is _awesome_. Whoever made this is a _genius_."

Sugar smiled broadly, and I didn't catch it then, but there was a glint of mischief in her eye. "Do you want to talk to the chef? He wasn't busy when I was back there."

My back straightened in surprise, and I put my fork down. I tossed the idea around in my brain for a minute before saying, "Yeah, yeah. Actually, that would be great." The restaurant seemed so unknown, the poor guy probably never got praised for his talent as he so clearly deserved. Sugar flitted off, and I picked up my fork and continued to eat, savoring each bite of garlic and smooth sauce.

"I take it you're enjoying the pasta?"

My head flung up and I looked into a pair of deep golden brown eyes. I gaped for a minute before I realized I'd been asked a question by the _chef_, none the less. I blinked a couple times, focused back on the guy's face as a whole, and smiled.

"Yeah, yeah, it's really great," I babbled, distracted. The guy was attractive, ridiculously so, and I was having a hard time thinking straight. His hair was dark and curly in the way that I knew would be crazy messy if he were to grow it out, but was actually really _awesome-_looking as it was. His skin was just…ugh. And his body? Damn. Don't even get me started on his lips, though, because they looked so damn kissable that I had to refrain from jumping out of my seat and trying it right then and there.

The chef's face lit up. "Thank you, so much. You know, it's not often we get new people in here, so I do like to know what they think when we do. It means a lot."

"Well," I said, "It's good! You deserve the acknowledgment. I know I'd go crazy if I didn't get recognized for my work," I said, shrugging and taking another bite of pasta. I assume that the face I made was very obviously blissed-out, judging from the way the chef's face split into a grin.

"I'm glad you're enjoying the food, but I really have to get back to work." He frowned a bit, and his regret seemed very genuine. I felt the same. "My name's Blaine — feel free to come back whenever. We're really fond of our reoccurring customers here." The chef — _Blaine_ — reached out to put his hand on my shoulder for a split second before turning and hurrying back to the kitchen.

I sat there in a stupor for a minute, mulling the conversation over in my head before I finished eating and waved Sugar down for the check. I felt…I don't know, _light_? Almost? I never dated in high school, so I don't know how it feels to be a teenage boy with a crush, but I'd think, that to some extent, that's how it would feel. When you meet someone you instantly like, or are attracted to, it's like you've struck gold if they give you the time of day.

But I told myself that Blaine was just a cook. He made my lunch. I enjoyed my lunch. I'd probably never see him again. If I did, I might not even remember him.

I walked out of that restaurant without the intention of going back.

The office was dead quiet when I stepped out of the elevator, which was unusual. Whenever I'd gone into work, Heather, the secretary, usually greeted me, and I could hear the low roar of the in-office reporters before I even turned the corner. But that wasn't the case today. And it was unnerving, to say the least. I followed the weaving path back to the main conference room, and sure enough, the entire company was packed in. I released a breath of relief – sure, Sue was certifiably insane, but she wouldn't just fireher _entire_ staff in one go.

I spotted Rachel wedged into a corner, and tried to make my way over to her. My breathing slowed and my heart rate relaxed and I was pretty sure I was going to be okay. Until it occurred to me that we might be in the room so Sue could tell us the company was going under.

I smothered the idea before I gave myself a panic attack, and tapped Rachel on the shoulder. "Hey," I whispered, squeezing in close. We weren't a big site, but the conference room was small, and therefore cramped, and I really didn't want to end up with someone I didn't know well's ass in my general vicinity.

"Okay, people, let's get to work!" Sue stormed in a few moments later and walked to the head of the room where a giant projector screen was set up, and slammed a thick folder onto the conference table. "Before anyone _raises their hand_," she glared down one of the mail room workers that had his arm half-way in the air, "no, I did not call you in here to fire you. I'm not _crazy_."

No one was stupid enough to dignify that comment with a response.

"Anyway," Sue continued, "something was recently brought forth to my attention that might be of interest to you all. There is another critic-blog being run out of central Ohio, and _they're getting more hits daily than we are_."

Everyone in the room turned and looked at one another, the silent shock evident on all our faces.

"Take a look at some screenshots if you don't believe me!" Sue said, and she clicked a button on the ancient projector to unveil her slides. The site itself was fairly standard, except for one thing — all of their reviews seemed to have low star ratings.

"Tough crowd," Jacob murmured beside me. I nodded at that — I don't think I'd ever seen a site that negative before, and I had to wonder what Sue was worried about.

"Why are they getting more views?" I asked. "Shouldn't they be driving viewers to our site, where all the positive stuff is?"

"You'd think so, Porcelain, but no! Studies show that people are likely to be more satisfied with sites that produce negative content, because they then feel like they are getting what they're paying for."

A man in the corner asked if Sue had actually seen studies, or if she was just making up statistics again. She threw a dry erase marker at him and continued.

"My point is this — no more positive reviews. We need to up our ratings!"

The room erupted into chaos, worse than it'd ever been before. The last time she'd pulled a stunt that caused this much commotion, she'd wanted us to wear uniforms so restaurants saw us coming. But this? This could shatter our credibility as a website.

"You can't do this!" Rachel and I repeated over and over in unison, along with the twenty-odd other staff members in the room.

"It's not _fair_ to the customers, or the restaurant staff! They want to be told the truth!" I yelled, and everyone else, to some degree, was trying to convey the same thing. But Sue, _Jesus Christ_, she wasn't having any of it.

She climbed onto the table, stood ramrod straight, and shouted at the top of her lungs. "_ENOUGH_! My word is final!"

The room fell silent, and Sue spoke loudly, waxing poetic about how her plan was the most god-damned beautiful thing since the wedding ring she gave herself. "I don't care what you guys think about it — no more complaints from now on. Do whatever you have to do to downplay a restaurant's quality. Say the bathrooms are nasty. Maybe the wine is 'watered down'. I don't really care. Just _do it_." She took a deep breath. "Alright. You're free to go."

No one argued, and we all simply filed out into the hall, muttering profanities under our breaths. I stuck close to Rachel, and ushered her over to an empty cubicle when we'd made it past the crowd. "How could she do this?" I hissed.

Rachel nodded in agreement. "We're going to lose our jobs! And aside from that…it just doesn't feel _right_. Can you imagine the hell this puts restaurant owners through, wondering what they could possibly do differently when they _aren't doing anything wrong_? I don't think I can do this!"

"I don't either," I sighed. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know?" Rachel shook her head. "But I'm not going to do this. And if we want Sue to respect that, we're going to do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet, but whatever it is, it's gotta be big."


	3. Blaine's POV

**3. Blaine's POV**

"Hey, Nightbird, look who's walking by!" Sam picked up the bucket of clean dishes from the table he'd been setting and knocked my shoulder as he passed, using his head to gesture out the front windows at the busy street. His tone was playful, but I still glowered.

"I…I told you _specifically _not to call me that anymore!" I hissed, and I shoved him towards the kitchen. He bounded off, his laugh ringing through the air. I wanted to be angry with him, and I wanted to avoid doing anything he'd tease me for later, but I couldn't stop myself from dropping down at an empty table to look out the window, just like he knew I would. The thing is though, that this guy…

He was gorgeous. Like, I wouldn't have been surprised if he turned out to be a model or something. And nearly every day since he'd been in my restaurant, he passed in front of _Bella Vita_ on his way to God-knows where and back. If you knew him, if you'd ever seen anyone like him, you'd understand. And so every time he went by, I just _looked_. I imagined things, like where he worked or what he ate for breakfast that morning. I imagined what it would be like to go on a date with him.

Sure enough, he was beautiful as ever when he walked by that morning. He had this, like…chestnut color hair, and that might not even be the right word for it, but it was the best shade hair could ever be, I think. And that day, his hair was styled upward in a coiffure, and he wore a brooch that looked interesting, but I couldn't see it well enough to know for sure what it was. I sighed and rested my chin on the heel of my hand.

"Blanderson, is that drool or is it just a new accessory?" Santana called from across the room. I stood up quickly and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. It came away dry, and I scowled.

"I did _not_…"

She stuck a shot glass under the counter and laughed. "Gullible, much?"

"Do I have to remind you that I'm your boss? I can dock your paycheck!" I said, and I thought that'd be the end of it. I honestly didn't think Santana would push the subject if I told her it would cost her some money. But no, she kept right on talking.

"But you _won't_. Let's face it — you're the nicest guy on the God-damned _planet_, and you have it _bad_ for a guy you've never even met. And that's your life right now." She shrugged as she picked up a disinfectant spray to scrub the counters. "It's sad, and you're so pathetic that you won't even do anything about it. You don't dock my _paycheck_ because you know that Auntie San's psychic Mexican third eye is right; you just don't want to admit it."

"I don't even know he's _gay_, Santana," I groaned. Santana was one of those people that could knock any and all energy you possessed out of you in five seconds flat, even it was seven a.m. on a Tuesday and you were so completely wired on coffee that it would have been impossible in that moment to sleep.

Santana threw her head back and cackled, actually _cackled_, and a grin the size of Texas split across her face. "I've seen the way the guy dresses, man. He's gay. At the very least, bi, because if I weren't a lesbian, I would _totally_ tap that."

I dropped my face into my palm, my nose making a snuffling noise when I breathed deeply. "His dressing habits have nothing to do with his sexuality, San, and you know what, neither does the fact that you'd 'tap that', okay?"

"Sure, whatever you say, Boss."

"You're impossible."

"I try."

I nodded stiffly and went to turn on the open light at the door. "Sure."

A few more days passed. I stared, Santana gave me hell for it, and when I stopped telling her to back off, Sam took it as a sign that I didn't really care and joined in. And it all boiled down to a not-so-glamorous moment in the kitchen, right before closing.

"Blaine. It wouldn't be hard to track the guy down. Just do it. You'd probably come away from the experience a little less tight-assed, if you know what I mean…" Santana was perched on the edge of the sink, and the smirk she had across her face made me want to throw a pan at her cartoon-style, but I just clenched my fists. Santana was like an elementary school bully. If I didn't, she'd figure out eventually that she couldn't get a rise out of me and would stop. Except for when she didn't. And this was one of those times.

"Yeah, maybe," I agreed through my teeth. Santana just cackled.

"Seriously though, Man, you could use a good night out. Couldn't he, Puck?"

And then, _God_, Puck took the bait. He was basically Santana's male counterpart, and the idea of them building an innuendo storm together was enough to make me want to vomit.

"He could, San. Maybe he'd cut me a little more slack when I 'don't roll the napkins right'."

Santana grinned, her eyes a mix of happiness (because what made her happier than teasing me?) and pure evil. "Or, maybe he'd be so busy sucking face with some guy that he wouldn't catch me if I tried to take a shot on the jo—"

"All_right_ _guys, I get it._ Now can you _please_ stop being so invested in my personal life that I feel like I need to walk on eggshells in my own restaurant?" I cut her off, closing my eyes tightly.

"Jesus, man, no need to get so defensive," Puck said, and that was all it took to make the rage set in.

It was no secret that I was in possession of an extremely short temper. My parents tried to joke about it when I was around, but the truth was, when I was living at home, they were scared to death that one day I'd get too angry, rear back, and punch one of them in the face. It's part of why I took up boxing.

"Puck, one more word out of you, and I _swear to god_, I will fire you. I'm going to take out the trash." I tore the trash bag out of the bin in the corner and stormed out of the kitchen, trying to calm myself down. I wouldn't fire Puck, that was just me blowing smoke, but I didn't trust myself in there with all the sharp and/or heavy cooking utensils.

The air was wispy and dry when I walked outside onto the front steps, just cool enough to ease the heat that had begun to envelop me. I sighed, deep and heavy. It seemed like I was the only person in the _world_ who's love life could be made into a joke. I mean, really. Here I was, standing out front because I was too angry to simply walk out the back to the dumpster. It was pathetic.

I took a step onto the sidewalk, and I instantly collided with someone, tripping backwards. I dropped the trash in an attempt to catch myself, and it went skidding down the sidewalk, tearing open on a small groove in the pavement. I landed flat on my stomach, with my wrist pressed under me in an extremely uncomfortable angle. I groaned.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" someone said, their voice filled with panic. And their voice. It was familiar in the best possible way. I slowly turned over onto my back, and sure enough, it was the man I'd been obsessing over for the past few days.

"You!" I said, using my left hand to push myself into a sitting position. "I know you! You were in my restaurant a few days ago!"

The man nodded. "Yeah, I was. Here, let me help you up." He held out his hand and I reached up to clasp it with my right hand. When he tugged, I pulled back in pain.

"_Ow_," I winced, cradling my wrist. "I think it might be broken? God, I'm such a klutz."

The man shook his head. "No, you aren't. I'm the one who ran in to you. Okay, let's try this." This time he reached for my left hand and pulled, and when I was far enough off the ground, he put his hand on my back and pushed me the rest of the way onto my feet. "Do you need a ride to the emergency room? My apartment's really close, and I've got my car there."

"Oh, no thanks," I assured him. "I'll just get someone from back inside to drive me." I gestured over my shoulder.

"We've been talking all of ten seconds and you're already _oozing_ gentleman. Please, I insist. It's the least I can do, after running you over like that," the man pleaded, and I sighed.

"Look, I don't even know your name…" I started.

The man shook his head and grabbed my good hand, pulling me down the street. "Good thing the ride to the hospital is long."

The man's car was a small sedan with impeccably clean seats and shiny windows. I had muttered a thank you when he held the passenger side door open for me, and that had been the last thing I'd said for the past ten minutes. The man drove in silence, and I could sense he was waiting for me to talk first, but I wasn't sure what to say. I was sitting in a stranger's car with a broken wrist, _defenseless_, and for whatever bizarre reason, _I didn't mind_. Which is why I tried to keep quiet.

The man coughed a few minutes later, and finally some words escaped my mouth.

"You're not taking me somewhere to kill me, are you?" I deadpanned, looking out the window.

He snorted. "You caught me. I was going to take you to a field and beat you over the head with the shovel in my trunk." He paused, a grin on his face. "No, I'm not."

"What's your name?"

"Kurt. You're Blaine, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"So, Blaine. Tell me. What do you do for a living?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You know what I do."

"Pretend I don't. Pretend I've never stepped foot in your restaurant before today. Explain to me what you do for a living, and why. What do you get out of it?" Kurt's profile was hard to read, and I found myself looking at my hands, one drawing shapes on my knee and the other lying limp at my side.

"Um," I started, "I run a restaurant. It's something I always wanted to do, because my dad ran a pizza place in Chicago, and everyone thought I was crazy, but, you know. I did it anyway."

"Do you regret it?" Kurt asked.

I thought for a moment. Sure, there were times when I absolutely wanted to punch a hole through the wall (see: twenty minutes before this), but I really didn't regret a thing. "…No. I don't, actually. It's infuriating…but it's what makes me happy."

"That's good," approval was evident in Kurt's voice, "people should always try to stick to doing the things they know they won't regret. Life's too short."

"What about you?" I turned in my seat to face Kurt, even though he couldn't do the same. "What do you do?"

"Well, I'm definitely a serial killer on the side," Kurt laughed, "but during the day, I masquerade as a food critic."

My heart sank. _Food critic_. If it there was one unspoken rule, it was that no chef should _ever_ be interested in one. "Really? I didn't have you pegged as the type."

"What, self absorbed and picky enough to be a toddler? Yeah, no. That's not me." Kurt shook his head.

However, the rule _was _unspoken, so I supposed that I _could _overlook it…

"What started you in the business, then?"

"My dad had a heart attack when I was in high school, and I went health-food crazy on him," Kurt said. "I got obsessed with finding good food, and when all was said and done, it seemed like a good fit."

"That's actually…very sweet, I guess, that you were concerned like that," I said, picking my words carefully.

"He was all I had," Kurt returned in explanation, as if that was enough.

Something in my chest tightened at the comment. "Yeah," I said, "I understand."

"So, here we are," I said as Kurt and I walked up in front of my apartment door. "Thanks again." I spared a brief glance at the blue cast that was now on my wrist and would be for the next six-to-eight weeks.

"Here we are," Kurt echoed. We stood in silence for a moment before he looked at his watch and cleared his throat. "I should probably, ah, go. See you around, I guess?"

He turned to walk away, and I panicked. "Wait!"

Kurt turned around. "What?"

"Um…I was wondering if you might want to go on a date with me next weekend," I mumbled.

"What?" Kurt's eyebrow crooked. "I didn't catch that?"

I took a deep breath. "Go on a date with me next weekend."

Kurt's eyes lit up, and my heart soared, because that was all it took for me to know the answer before he actually spoke.

"Yes. Definitely. Um, do you have a pen and a pad of paper?" he asked, patting around his legs, as if he could have put a pad of paper in one of his skin-tight pockets.

"Um, no…" I stuck my hand in the inner pocket of my apron, which in my haste to get out of the restaurant, I had failed to remove. I came away with the sharpie I used to mark to-go orders. "Oh! I have a marker!"

Kurt grinned. "Perfect." He marched forward, took the sharpie, uncapped it, and began scribbling on my cast.

"Oh my god," I craned my neck back to look at the ceiling. "This is so cliché!"

"Hey, if it works, it works," Kurt laughed. "Here." He handed me the sharpie. "Make sure to put that in your phone before someone writes over it, okay? Text me when you want to make plans."

He left, and I went inside. I turned on the lamp I had sitting in the living room and held my arm under the sparse light to see what he had written.

_Save the hard-falling for the bigger folk next time, m'kay? —Kurt 3_

I am not ashamed to say that I fist-pumped.


	4. Kurt's POV

**4. Kurt's POV**

**From Unknown Number (9:48PM)  
**_Hey, It's Blaine!_

**To Blaine (9:49PM)**_**  
**__Oh hey! How are you?_

**From Blaine (2:51PM)**  
_Good! I'm just thinking about our date. Is next Sunday at 3:00 okay for you?_

**To Blaine (9:59PM)**  
_Yeah, I'm open. See you then! _

A lot can happen in a week.

Usually, nothing does. Usually, people go throughout their days without the slightest hint of anything interesting happening, and they just accept that life is going to be boring and uninteresting and they fall into patterns. I am a victim of this crime. I wake up every morning, I have the same coffee, go through the same shower, face, and hair routines, and check my same email account for my same emails that always tell me when and where my next meal reservation is. And then I sit down at my same computer and write in the same font on my same word processor about my past meals. For something so easy, it sure gets tiring.

It's when your routine starts to change in small tiny ways that you should expect a full, jam-packed week.

For example, I woke up on Monday morning to several texts from Blaine in which he told me he thought I was cute and that he couldn't wait for Sunday. Reading these texts and being happy that I was right on the brink of my first relationship since college wasted time, and I was unable to complete my facial cleansing routine, for fear of getting behind schedule.

Then, I sat down at my computer. The newest email in my inbox was one from Sue, which outlined all the restaurants she'd made plans for me to go to. I read over them carefully, my eyes widening when I saw what my Wednesday review was.

Right on my screen, in glaring bold, it read: _**Wednesday: Bella Vita Italian Bistro. Dinner 5:00 — Reservation under Sylvester**__._

Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem. But with the new rules Sue had set in place…

_No_. I wasn't going to do that to Blaine. I'd find a way to write him a fantastic review, just like he deserved.

I put the thought to the back of my mind and set to work, researching the restaurant I was expected to eat lunch at. I tended to start at websites like _Yelp_ and branch out from there, following links back to small little food blogs and credible websites that were known for having fantastic judgment. All in all, I got the impression that it would be a fairly easy review.

I tried to think of a plan.

Blaine had some free time later that night, another thing that interrupted my schedule and added to my list of things that were happening that week, and I invited him over to watch bad reality TV. We ended up cuddling, an activity, it turns out, that he is an expert in. And while we were sitting there on the couch, I started to think about Wednesday and how I should tell him. I should just get it off my chest and tell him about Sue's stupid rule.

Surprisingly, I didn't have to bring it up at all, because Blaine did. "I was thinking. Did you write a review after you came to the restaurant?"

I blanched for just a minute before speaking, the look on my face probably akin to that of a drowned cat. "No, I didn't. I just needed somewhere to eat lunch, is all."

Blaine smiled. "Okay, it's just…I had to ask, because I've experienced bad reviews before, and they've really decreased business."

At the mention of bad reviews, my stomach twisted, but I tried not to let it show. "Really? Blaine, _Bella Vita_ is _amazing_. And now that I'm thinking about it, I got assigned to eat dinner there on Wednesday. And I'm going to give you a wonderful rating, make no mistake!"

Blaine beamed, and my chest tightened. "You know, I could just _kiss you_ right now."

I suppressed the feeling and smiled. "You know, I wouldn't stop you if you tried."

He tried.

I didn't stop him.

I forgot for a while that I had just essentially lied to him.

Wednesday creeped up on me, and I woke up that morning feeling badly rested and anxious to figure out what I was going to do to convince Sue to publish a good rating of _Bella Vita_. I figured I'd just write what I wanted and go from there. Sue needed content, and if I refused to post anything but what I believed to be true, she'd either cave or fire me. And at the moment, I didn't think I'd mind too much if I had to find another job. If worse came to worst, I could commute to Lima and work in the tire shop for a while, but I sure as hell wasn't going to go to ridiculous lengths to keep my job on the webzine.

I called Rachel to explain what was going on.

"_Hey Kurt, how are you?"_ she said when she answered the phone.

"Not good," I admitted. "So, I met this guy…"

"_Who? Oh my God, is he cute? Wait, you said not good. Did you have a one night stand? Is this like NYU junior year? Do I need to bring you black coffee and a bucket of something terrible and greasy?"_ Rachel cut me off and had spiraled down a completely inaccurate path before I had the chance to stop her.

"No, Rach, just…_no_. Okay, so I met this guy. He runs a restaurant, and Sue wants me to review said restaurant but I don't want to mess up whatever it is that we have by giving him a bad rating. And I don't know what to do!" I plopped down on the couch and drug a hand through my hair. "God, I'm just going to fuck it up, aren't I?"

I could hear Rachel sigh on the other end. _"I think you're just going to have to hope that he trusts you when all is said and done. That way you can explain yourself_."

"I hope you're right, Rachel. I hope you're right."

Blaine was waiting by the front door of the building when I showed up for my reservation, a grin the size of Texas spread across his face. I smiled in return, leaning in to kiss his cheek before I went inside. "Hey," I said.

"Um, because you told me you were coming I kind of told Sugar, Tina, and Puck that I'd serve you tonight? And if one of them comes over while I'm in the kitchen and starts talking to you, it's because they pry far too much and have worked out every waking detail of my social life and for that I am _truly sorry_," Blaine placed his hand on my shoulder and led me to a table, different from the one I'd sat in last. I was amused at the way that he was warning me of his staff, like I was about to meet his family, or something.

But I supposed that, what with him being a small business owner, that's exactly what was happening.

Blaine took my order and disappeared into the kitchen, and sure enough, not five seconds later, a girl with long dark hair and an expression that _screamed_ invasive asshole slid into the chair across from me. "So, Anderson's kind of your bitch now, huh?"

"_Excuse me?_" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Um, hello? Every _fucking_ time you passed by outside the window, Mr. Bowtie-Happy in there got a disgustingly sappy look slapped across his face, like you 'hung the moon' or something equally as stupid." She shrugged, the look on her face fading to something extremely neutral.

The ends of my lips turned up. "Really?"

"Ugh, see? You're doing it too. Oh god, I was just in this because I wanted the dirty details about my boss's sex life, but this?" she waved over her head towards the kitchen, probably meaning Blaine, and then at me, "This is so cotton candy sweet, there is _no way_ any kind of sexual things are going on up in here. No way. I'm done." She stood up and walked over to the bar and swung herself over. I just kind of sat there, letting the shock of what just happened sink in. I don't think I moved until Blaine returned with my food, balancing plates on his good arm.

"Who is that?" I whispered, pointing at the girl behind the bar.

"Just Santana. She's an ass, don't mind her," Blaine said offhandedly, and set my food in front of me. "Enjoy!"

I smiled, picked up my fork, and brought the first bite of food to my mouth.

"_Porcelain. Great, you picked up_."

"Yes Ms. Sylvester?" I droned, balancing the phone in between my ear and my shoulder as I typed out my Thursday review.

"_I can't publish your Wednesday piece, and you know it."_

"Why not?" I asked, pretending not to know why.

"_Because of the _rules I set in place_," _even over the phone, I could tell she sounded very frustrated.

"Well I'm not going to change anything other than typos," I said as I typed, trying to focus on the words more than anything.

"_You know what? Fine. Keep your damn review. I have more important shit to deal with than this_." Sue hung up on me, and I have to admit.

It felt too easy.

I went to pick Blaine up on Sunday like we'd planned, and knocked on his door. My hands were visibly shaking, and I laughed. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this nervous, the good kind of nervous that was more anticipation than anything. I'm pretty sure my heart stopped when Blaine opened the door, but then I took in the sight.

Blaine wasn't dressed for a movie. In fact, he wasn't dressed at all — he was wearing baggy sweatpants and a tank top, and he looked _pissed_.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"If you think I'm still going to go out with you after what you said about the restaurant, you're delusional," he sneered. And then he slammed the door in my face.

I don't think I'd ever felt the need to get to a computer faster than I had in that moment, but I bolted to my car and drove home as quickly as possible. I'd left my computer on and plugged in, so it didn't take me long to open up the website's home page and scan for my review.

Except, it wasn't my review. It had my name on it, but it was a completely different article than the one I'd written up the day before. My jaw dropped further with each word I read, scanning through each paragraph, looking for a scrap of something I wrote. Nothing. Sue had played me.

I pulled out my phone and attached Blaine's contact info to a text and sent it to Rachel.

**To Rachel (3:36PM)**_  
Please text him and try to explain what's going on. I'm going to the office. Check in SOON._

I drove to work even though it was extremely close, as I didn't want to waste any time. I flashed my card at the security officer and stormed into the elevator, my head pounding. _Sue had just ruined something that could have been fantastic. Sue just tore apart my relationship with Blaine like it was nothing, like it was just a piece of trash_. The same phrases played over and over in my head, fueling my fire.

I completely ignored Heather when she said hello to me from her place behind our floor's front desk, and made a beeline for the back of the office space, where Sue's office was. And then I was there, practically nose to nose with a nameplate that made me want to throw up.

I knocked on the door, softer at first, and then louder when I wasn't getting any responses. Sue finally opened the door. "What do you want, Porcelain?"

"You can't just _do stuff like this_, Sue!" I shoved my way past her into her office and turned in a few circles. "I took my time with that review, and you just shredded it! People are going to think that _Bella Vita _is just a piece of shit, low-quality restaurant, when it's probably one of the best in the area. That's not fair!"

"Well, sorry to be the one to break it to you, kid, but life just isn't fair. We do what we need to do to get by, and then we die. Deal with it." Sue said.

"I just don't believe that," I said, pursing my lips. "So you know what? I quit."

I left then, pulling my phone out to view a text from Rachel.

**From Rachel (4:15PM)**  
_I explained it to him and he feels really bad. You're probably going to get a load of texts from him really soon._

**To Rachel (4:27PM)**  
_Great. And Rachel? Remember when you said we need to do something big to get Sue's attention? Well, I think I've got just the idea…_

**Foodie Frauds: Why You May Need to Reconsider Trusting Reviews  
**Posted by **Admin** 2:15PM EST

_Two years ago today, food enthusiast Kurt Hummel, along with his boyfriend-turned-fiance Blaine Anderson and his best friend Rachel Berry, launched a website named "Debunked Ratings" after an honesty issue with Hummel's former employer, Sue Sylvester. _

"_She was way out of line," says Hummel. "I had written a review of Blaine's restaurant and given him four and a half stars, and at the time she was convinced we'd get more hits if we posted negative content. She completely reworked my review, and I'd had enough."_

_Hummel goes on to explain that he and Berry set up the site to put reviewers to the ultimate test of credibility. They planned to re-review any and all restaurants in their area and see if their findings were in any way similar to what critics had claimed before._

_The results were quite shocking. It turns out that the majority of the places they visited were not nearly as bad or good as it was said, and that was the start of the project. Anderson says, "I know what it's like to be given a faulty review. You spend all your time wondering what you did wrong when really, there's nothing to fix. I really admire what Kurt and Rachel are doing, which is why I'm helping as much as I can. We're doing this unique thing where when we find a restaurant in need of improvement, we go in, and instead of openly criticizing, we tell them exactly what it is that needs fixing, like 'This dish needs more butter, this one, more flavor', etcetera. I'm having a lot of fun with it."_

_The "Debunked Ratings" website is growing in size every day, and branching out all over the country, and their motto is one to remember:_

Just because it's on the internet, doesn't mean it's true. Unless you come to us, of course!


End file.
